Beautiful Beast (Enchanted Fairytales) (3 page)

He was tall, she suspected as tall as the figure she’d seen raging at the setting sun. She wondered if it was him, and if so, what caused his deep pain. Right now he just looked arrogant. He was a good-looking guy for someone his age, though, she couldn’t help but notice.

“Do you want aspirin with that?” he dead-panned. She shook her head. He walked over to the window and poured her a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on a high desk there. He handed it to her before taking his seat on the opposite side of the desk.

“But . . .” she sputtered. “That’s so . . .
unfair
.”

He glanced toward his window. “If there is one absolute I have learned in my lifetime, it’s that the cliché is true. Life
is
unfair.”

Calli clamped her hands together, determined not to lose her temper. What was the saying? It’s easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar?

“Listen, Mr. Stratford—”

“No, you listen,” he said, sitting abruptly forward in his chair. “There is no negotiation here. You were trespassing. I know
why
you were trespassing.” Calli’s cheeks flushed. “If you’re so interested in seeing the monster of Orchid, this is your chance to get an up close and personal look.”

“But, I . . .”

“Tell me, Ms. Clayson, can your father afford the bill from the doctor who stitched you up?” Calli lifted her chin, refusing to answer. He opened a drawer and pulled a piece of paper out, which he tossed across the desk. “There’s the bill. The bill I’m prepared to pay. If you think your father can manage it, by all means take it and go.”

Calli took the paper and scanned it. When her eyes reached the bottom and the staggering total, her throat tightened in distress.

“Of course, there’s still the trespassing charge as well. You’ll likely get a fine for that, and some community service.”

Calli’s eyes came back to Mr. Stratford’s. She was really beginning to dislike this man. A sick feeling of resignation flowed down her spine. What choice did she have?

Calli glared at his callous words. “You don’t understand. It’s only the two of us. I take care of the house, pay the bills, wash his clothes, cook his food.”

“You do all of that?” He was incredulous. “I’ll hire a maid for him. She can do all of that.”

“Pay his bills?” Calli asked skeptically.

He rubbed one cheek, contemplating. Then he glanced at her. “I’ll assign one of the interns to him. They can take care of his bookkeeping.”

His brows lifted at her audacity. “Do you understand the value of what I am already offering? Aside from that,” he flipped his hand toward the bill she held, “the cost of a maid
and
an intern to take care of your father. And you also wish compensation?”

Calli knew she treaded dangerous ground, but she lifted her chin, giving one sharp nod.

“Six months, the bill paid, the maid and bookkeeper, weekends off, and a weekly wage of a thousand dollars,” he said.

Calli’s head spun at the amount. A thousand bucks a
week
? Her father barely made that in a month. She quickly did the math and realized the money would not only get them out of their desperate straits, but would also provide her a nice college fund. And maybe a new pair of jeans. She swallowed, not wanting to appear desperate.

“All of that and I also get Wednesday nights off.”

“You really want to risk all I’m offering for another 4 hours a week?” He laughed humorlessly. “Keep in mind, Ms. Clayson, I know your financial situation as well as you do.”

“Okay, fine,” she conceded. “Just one more thing.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this,” he said lightly.

Her eyes dropped to the desktop. “Do you think, maybe, you could arrange for rehab? For my dad, I mean. Some kind of outpatient thing, so he won’t lose his job.”

He was silent for so long she finally lifted her eyes to his. She couldn’t read his expression. He stood, extending his right hand to her. “Deal,” he said.

She also stood, placing her hand in his, giving it a firm shake. “Deal,” she repeated.

As she left the bank to be driven home by the dour Martha, at Mr. Stratford’s unshakeable insistence, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a deal with the Devil.

* * * * *

Calli stood looking out her bedroom window.
The wooden back fence was only about fifteen feet from her window across a mostly dead stretch on lawn. The fence itself was peeling and falling apart in places, even sagging near one of the corners.

She sighed and dropped the corner of the sheet that served as a drape. A glance at her watch told her she only had a few minutes. She walked over to her bed and picked up her small bag. She didn’t have much to take with her. A hand written card on a piece of paper fluttered to her floor. She picked it up.

Jennae, Brittany, Brandon, and Eli had thrown her an impromptu party last night. Of course, it was only the five of them since none of them could afford to throw a real party, nor had houses big enough to accommodate more than a few people. They’d made her a cake that slightly resembled Sully from
Monsters, Inc
. The handwritten card had a grotesque monster drawn on the front, compliments of Eli’s rather unique talent. The inside said: “Don’t get eaten by the monster. But if you do, we’ll cut him open and rescue you!”

She wasn’t allowed to tell anyone the details of her deal with Mr. Stratford. Her father knew
why
she was going, that the banker agreed to pay the doctor’s bill, and of course he knew of the maid, but he didn’t know the rest. Her friends had been told she was being assigned community service at the Monster House for trespassing. None of them had volunteered to admit their part as accomplices and take part of the burden.

She reached up and rubbed her fingers across the scar beneath her hair. The stitches had come out a few days ago, and honestly, already the scar was so thin she could barely see it.

A honk alerted her to the arrival of her ride. She tucked the paper deep inside the bag and walked through the small living area to the front door. Her father was at work. He couldn’t afford to miss any more days than the two he’d stayed home to nurse her.

A long black limousine awaited her. She quickly glanced up and down the street to see who might be watching. Most everyone was at work, and she didn’t see anyone who cared to discover who was honking. She dashed out and slid in, slamming the door behind her before the driver could do so. She watched through the window as he tipped his hat with an amused grin and walked around to the driver’s side.

Calli slid low in the seat, though she doubted anyone could see her through the dark windows. They drove down the rutted streets and up the long hill toward the house she’d both envied and feared for so long.

The driver pulled through the wrought iron gates and around the circular drive, stopping in front. Calli stared gloomily at the house. It was much taller than it appeared from below, and even from where they’d hidden out back behind the hedges.

She jumped as the driver opened her door and wondered if she could just hide in the car for the six months. Terror gripped her at the thought of steeping through the doors into the house.

She was sure the stories of the monster were exaggerated, sure he was human. Okay, maybe not
sure
. But she thought he probably was. Maybe. She hoped.

As she climbed out, another man came down the steps, dressed formally. He was tall and thin, balding with sparse gray hair on the sides of his head. His eyes, though, were bright and friendly.

“Ms. Clayson,” he said, bowing. It seemed a ridiculous gesture, and yet somehow it seemed right coming from this very proper man. “My name is Hartland. Welcome to Stratford Place.” Calli only nodded as he took her bag from the driver. “Thank you, Westley.”

Hartland walked up the steps toward the house, and Calli assumed she was to follow. She gave a little wave at the driver and followed the old man into the house.

The entry soared high above her head. The floor was dark, polished wood that gleamed richly. The walls were textured and painted with varying shades of beige and gold. Tapestry’s hung high on the walls. A wood stairway curved along the wall to an upper floor. Dark wooden doors on both sides of the entry and at the back opposite the entry hid other rooms. Calli felt a little like she’d stepped back in time.

Hartland walked over to one of the side doors and waved her forward. “Mr. Stratford wishes to speak to you before I show you to your room.”

This startled her. “Mr. Stratford is home?”

“Yes, miss.”

Calli’s nerves were as taut as they’d been when she’d approached him at the bank. She took a breath and strode forward, stepping in as Hartland swung the door open. He closed it softly behind her, but in her mind it clanged as loud as a jail cell door.

Mr. Stratford sat behind a mammoth desk that dwarfed the one at the bank. Other than the desk, the room felt entirely modern. He clicked away on a keyboard, which he only glanced up momentarily from as she came in, one finger lifted to ask her to give him a minute. The walls were lined with clearly expensive artwork, a bar to the side lined with several bottle of some kind of liquid that she guessed cost more per bottle than even her dad managed to drink all together in a year.

“Come forward, Callidora.” She twitched at his voice, but moved toward his desk. She was surprised that he called her by her first name—by her
entire
horrible first name. “Sit,” he said, pointing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. These chairs were larger and by far plusher than those that sat in his office at the bank.

Mr. Stratford’s jaw clenched tightly as he glanced down at his desk. His hands clamped together tight enough to cause them to turn white. Just about the time the awkwardness became alarming, he looked at her.